I found the road by mistake. I’d gone out for a brief drive late one Saturday morning last spring and, suddenly itching for a bit more alone time, decided to investigate a state park I’d heard good things about—170 miles away. So I drove. And drove—down the interstate, onto rural routes, and through twisty back roads in the forests of north-central Pennsylvania, for no other reason than that I had an urge. Wrapped up in my meditative solitude, I missed a turn and found myself at the head of a blocked-off road. The barricade bore a “Local Traffic Only” sign, and beyond it stretched a strip of fresh, inky asphalt, winding and unblemished. They hadn’t even painted the double-yellow yet. The virgin road beckoned.